


On the Transduction of Magic

by inthemouthofthewolf



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Canon Trans Character, Dealfic, FTM Belle, Gender Issues, M/M, Magic, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Trans Belle, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:13:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthemouthofthewolf/pseuds/inthemouthofthewolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle is a trans*man (FTM) named Blake, but has hid his identity because he didn't think there was a way out of it. Now that he's learning about the world of magic, he's wondering whether maybe there was something he could do after all, or rather, something Rumplestiltskin could do. He'd pay any price for that sort of magic.<br/>TRIGGER WARNING::: I cannot stress to you enough the triggers in here for those of us who have dealt with transphobia, but more specifically, within a mental health setting. I cannot stress to anyone enough the profound terror and abuse that lies inherent within the mental health system. If you are hesitant about reading, please do not subject yourself to needless anguish for the sake of some fanfiction. It's almost impossible for me to write, but getting it out helps me let go of the things that have happened to me. You're probably relatively safe reading up through chapter 3.</p><p>Also, this is going to end up sort of AU in that<br/>1) it takes longer to bring magic back to storybrooke<br/>2) jefferson does not randomly disappear and never come back (like srsly wth happened)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Interrupting the Stasis

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This is not a how-to guide on all trans*dudes. It's just one trans*dude writing about another trans*dude. We're individuals. We prefer different things. When in doubt, ASK. Respectfully. It's generally much much better to ask than to assume and potentially roll a 1 on your diplomacy check. Jus' sayin'.
> 
> Work in particular inspired by the dearies who write the Mark(FTM!Molly-centric) Sherlock fics && they just inspire me in general. They rock.
> 
> Also, Rumpelstiltskin is taking over my life, and this was practically begging to be written. I mean, come ON. How perfect is that?

He knew who he was even until his earliest memories, reading stories, playing pirates, saving damsels, being a hero. Being imaginative and having a highly voracious appetite for books had its perks-- he could be whoever he wanted, for one, and he could attempt to ignore his blossoming betraying body around him as he grew older, curves in places where they didn't belong, skin and face still soft as a babe's. He buried himself further in literature and consoled himself (with no small amount of bitter resignation) with the fact that there was not a single thing in the world that he could do about it. He would just have to deal with gritting his teeth and bearing it, being tough, and pretending to be a girl for the rest of his life. 

It was a gloomy thought, but he had responsibilities to look after, a father that needed him. The very same father definitely didn't need any added stress-- and this sort of impossibility he would never even begin to understand-- and if he couldn't fathom it, why bother him with it at all? So Blake kept it to himself, answered to the name “Belle” even if it made him inwardly flinch, and just pretended he didn't feel disorientated and plain ill all the time, pretended he was playing a role, or was some sort of covert spy in a really really convincing disguise. It was easier that way, for everyone. For Everyone Else, rather. But that was the important thing, wasn't it? If you can't fix it, you have to stand it.

And for all the standing it he did, attempting to be stoic still didn't help much. He hardly looked in the mirror, always had them covered up, because he hated seeing himself staring out of a face of a total stranger, someone he'd never known. It was unsettling.  
But still, all the same, he could admit that he wasn't ugly-- not for a girl anyway-- but there's the rub. He could be the most beautiful girl in the world-- which he most certainly wasn't-- but it didn't feel like HIS charm or good looks. He didn't possess the casual arrogance or matching nonchalant visage of Gaston, but he certainly envied it, especially that hair, the height, the jawline-- well, everything, really. Blake had to keep reminding himself that it wasn't for him-- that such a thing would never be possible. And so he'd have to manage, act the pretty girl in the war room (which he despised), dote upon his father (which he didn't mind. He enjoyed the closeness of their relationship, even if he couldn't share any of his true thoughts), and think that, here they were, the village was about to be destroyed because some sort of wizard or demon hadn't showed up to broker a deal to save their collective sorry asses-- here they were, all of them about to die maybe in the next few days and all Blake could think was that keeping it together was unbearable, and in a way he almost welcomed the fact that it would be all over--- that, and if the advisers had listened to his advice, instead of pushing him away like a ditzy woman (stupid of them to think women couldn't make great contributions anyway, but point is, he's not a girl), maybe they wouldn't even really be in this mess in the first place, or at least it wouldn't be so dire.

And so Blake was managing as usual. Managing the same way he had all the years of his life, hiding behind the eyes of someone who wasn't himself.

There was a sudden knock on the door, and their (dangerous, his father warned him with all the protectiveness of a father over his only daughter) guest was suddenly sitting upon the throne. Rumpelstiltskin introduced himself and promptly ruined everything with endless possibilities, and so Blake knew he **had** to go with him.


	2. In the Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blake pops the question-- no, not /that/ question.  
> We learn a little bit about Rumple's dating history.

“So, you can do all sorts of things with magic, right?” Blake had been devouring his impish employer's (ok, ok, so there was no salary involved) vast library, which in a sort of disjointed sprawling fashion took up a large portion of the estate. And he kept coming across more and more interesting tomes while cleaning-- almost as if the “beast” that owned this body was intentionally leaving the volumes where Blake would run afoul of their temptations.

And he says “run afoul” because if Rumpelstiltskin catches Blake reading when he's meant to be working, which is very nearly every time Blake ever sneaks a few minutes break (it's like he has eyes in the whole castle. Hopefully not actual eyes.), there's always some sort of punishment or another. It seemed Rumpelstiltskin quite enjoyed that little game. Right now Blake had been ordered to stay with Rumpelstiltskin while he worked in the high tower-- besides the fact that his Master could have ordered him to anyway, even without catching Blake slacking on the job; he was particularly struck by the fact that the Dark One (a title fear and awe-inspiring throughout all the kingdoms) seemed to think that his “caretaker” would only ever be willing to spend time with the “monster” if the “girl” **(boy)** had no other choice in the matter.

“Magic can do **just about anything** , dearie.” Rumpelstiltskin half-chided as he worked in his tower with Blake quietly observing, thinking, planning. He'd been planning this question for over a week now that he's been out of the dungeon.

“You can transform people into all sorts of things; I've been reading.” Blake began falteringly, suddenly not sure at all how to proceed-- “...Snails and beetles and such.”

“Is there someone you need transformed, dearie?”

“Well, er-- Not into a /beetle/, no.” Oh gods, this conversation was going all wrong.

“Then what?”

“N-nothing. Forget I asked.”

“Now, now, dearie...” Rumpelstiltskin tutted, pausing his work, wagging his finger in a rebuke, “If you have a request of my particular talents,” he bowed low, grinning wickedly, “you need only ask.”

“I don't have a-- request. I was just curious...” Blake pouted, vehemently hating the softness of the skirts that billowed about him when Rumpelstiltskin threw open the window of his high tower. It made him feel sick, honestly. Why was it again that he was still wearing these bodices and skirts and corsets when he was finally /free/ of such nonsense? Rumpelstiltskin certainly wouldn't care what he wore-- would he?

But the imp's eyes were roving over him so appreciatively, that he swallowed the thought-- reminding himself-- be bold, Blake. Be brave, and bravery will follow-- his mouth felt dry-- it wasn't like he was really admitting anything, though. It was just an innocent question. So he took a breath and blurted it all out before he could stop himself-- 

“I was just wondering if you'd ever changed a person's sex.”

He hid a small sigh of relief, just getting it out into the open, trying to hide how scared to death he honestly was.

Rumpelstiltskin looked thoughtful for a moment, tapping his chin with his talon-like green nails, pacing about the area of the tower while Blake looked on, leaning against the windowsill.

“It's certainly possible, dearie” He gave her a pointed look, still working it all out in his head. “And if anyone can do it--” He looked very smug when he indicated that of course this anyone would be himself. “Why are you so curious about that?” Honestly, Rumpelstiltskin couldn't imagine why-- “Do you want to... turn … your fiancee into a woman?” He offered, but even that didn't seem like a reason. Magic like that, while complex, mostly just seemed unnecessary. “It's far more effective and easier changing species, dearie-- why change someone's body into one more typically associated with another gender, when you could change them into something small and insignificant-- like a cockroach? Seems much more fitting.” He ventured that last bit, a more innocuous insult to one's ex-fiancee.

At Blake's inquisitive stare at Rumpelstiltskin's word choice-- surprisingly inclusive, he waved his hand dismissively, muttering “I dated a seahorse once.”

Thinking the conversation was over, the magic-wielder went to resume his work, when Blake spoke up once more,  
“I was asking because-- well... I was wondering if you could do that for me.” He gulped, and there was the panic roaring in his ears, and he glanced out the window, wondering even now whether he should throw himself out of it, and he was staring harder and longer than he had realised because now Rumpelstiltskin's hand was on his shoulder, and when he turned towards him the look that he was faced with was... so... concerned? Baffled? Curious?  
It was all of those things, but never /ever/ disgusted.

“Do you think we could try to figure it out?” Blake muttered hopefully, suddenly not quite able to meet Rumpelstiltskin's eyes, and he fretted and clenched and unclenched his fists, hating how small they were, and hating how dainty he seemed, and how high his voice was.

Rumpelstiltskin faltered for a moment, not sure exactly what to say, but his eyes remained the same-- In the end he shrugged, nonchalant, muttering “I can't see why not.”  
Blake cut off whatever elaboration might have come after with a surprisingly bone-crushing hug for one so small. Rumpelstiltskin did not quite know what to do about that.


	3. One Step Forward A Variable Number Of Steps Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So the 2nd chapter seemed so supportive and nice. That sometimes happens prematurely. At first it can all seem fine and dandy, but then when people have time to stop and think, and think it's somehow about them, they just end up making complete asses out of themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a bit less linear, so bear with me;;  
> I'm going to be doing like the show, jumping back and forth between Storybrooke (which will move relatively linearly) and Enchanted Forest (all over the place as seen fit).

One Step Forward, and a Variable Number of Steps Back

 

 

Blake had been languishing in his room for days. He didn’t come out to eat, much less do his assigned tasks, and that made his Master very _irritated_.

It had followed a particular conversation that, after a number of weeks, he was eager to get started, to shed this disgustingly female coil and don one more suited to him— he supposed he was being impatient.

But wouldn’t you be impatient for something you had wanted your whole life and never thought possible?

“I don’t see how it’s so important. At any rate, I have more urgent matters to attend to.”

“But Belle, you’re so…” Rumplestiltskin traced a voluptuous hourglass shape in the air and Blake fought the urge to vomit.

“You want your fucking castle cleaned, you do it yourself.” Blake had snarled, throwing down the dust rag and storming from the room.

It was all very peculiar. To Rumple.

The initial shock and nonchalance had worn off and now Rumple was really _thinking_ about it, thinking maybe that it would be inconvenient to have a male for a maid. For one, Belle was much more interesting to look at. He didn’t understand what the big deal was. Not really. He’d never much had to think about it before, and that was simple truth. The seahorse thing had been a brief affair, admittedly, and he’d never really been able to wrap his head around the whole idea… that probably had something to do with its brevity.

And yet

It had been days and his housekeeper had still not emerged from the dungeon. There had been many things to see to, a very great many things, and so while it hadn’t fully escaped his notice, on the priority list the matter had ranked quite low. Now, however, his servant was going to get what was coming to _(Rumplestilstkin faltered, searching for gendered pronouns, choosing to avoid them entirely this time around) –_ them. for their sheer laziness.

Blake was curled up in a pile of rags and barely flinched when a furious imp bashed in the door. It wasn’t going to happen after all it wasn’t how could it he was stupid to imagine it was never going to come true he’d be stuck like this forever stuck it was ALL WRONG

ALL WRONG ALL WRONG ALL WRONG ALL WRONG

“You know you still manage to be pretty even when you’re crying.”

Rumple had picked just about the absolute worst thing to say. He faltered again, was trying to be encouraging, but really he just didn’t get it. Yet.


	4. Locked Doors on Locked Cells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr.Gold and Blake reflect on their experiences while in their corresponding cells. Blake is in the locked psychiatric ward of the hospital, Gold is in the jail cell at the Sheriff's office after nearly beating Blake's father to death. Regina returns to him the chipped cup. TRIGGER WARNINGS ALL OVER HERE OK::: ABUSE BY MEDICAL PROFESSIONALS, TRANSPHOBIA, PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL MEMORIES ARE NOT GOOD MEMORIES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger trigger trigger trigger trigger warning.  
> I might be overdoing it because these things are triggers for me, and I want to make sure nobody else is going to get flashbacks while reading this. I actually had to stop writing because it was getting too painful and then randomly I was like "wtf happened to Jefferson" and now I'm just kind of disgruntled.

Blake languished in his little cell. The walls were so sterile white, and he was always alone. Somehow he remembered things being better, but it seemed like another life. It must have been. For one, his body had been different, it had suited him finally; he remembered working hard to make that happen for himself, fighting hard for his maleness that he should have had, unquestioned, by right, by simple self-declaration. He used to worry because they told him that the medicine was supposed to sort this all out. He didn’t like being labelled “resistant to treatment”, because it always ended badly. When it wasn’t dreadfully boring, it was terrifying and miserable, and even while everything felt so wrong, he knew deep down they weren’t really helping, and so in those times he would reflect back on the little life that they said he’d created in his head.

He often had dreams about those sort of past lives, though he wondered how he knew so much about them, because he hadn’t any books. Not here.

Mr.Gold languished in his little cell in the sheriff’s office. The wall was two sides harsh stone, two sides heavy steel bars. He was sitting on the small cot, bored out of his skull, wishing that he had a book. He hated books, they always made him think of--

He swallowed thickly and didn’t allow himself the luxury of thought.

They were thoughts overwhelmed with regret and rage, and thoughts like that tended to get men beaten nearly to death. There was no one within reach here. It would be decidedly counterproductive.

When Blake wasn’t left alone in the cell, and wasn’t drugged into a stupor or strapped to gurneys, or being observed forcing down the tasteless meals of the day, one breakfast, one dinner, both with medicine, they said they were teaching him life skills. They would train his posture, make him walk from one end of the hall to the other with a book balanced on his head, and said that when he could be trusted to take on more complicated tasks without hurting himself, he would learn to properly serve tea. It made him uneasy and agitated and they told him that it meant the treatments were working. They would hand him sour encouragements when he did what was asked of him, “good girl” they said, like he was an animal, but worse, a girl animal, which he could not forget that he *wasn’t* no matter how many “treatments” he’d had. But he couldn’t deny that, after all this time, for as long as he could remember, he had been here in this hospital. He couldn’t deny that he was having doubts—maybe they were right and he was just really very sick like they had been saying all along. When the medicine made him too sleepy for physical activity, when his mind was foggy and he was, as they said, most docile, least likely to argue, that was when the doctor came to his cell and they had their talking session. Even though it provided him the relief of basic social activity, what the doctor said, and what the doctor had him do, made his skin crawl and made him feel physically ill, even sedated as he was.

How could he deny the truths of his body, they said

How could he not see what was right in front of him.

He was obviously a very sick girl and it was disappointing that after all this time he’d shown such little progress, though he had no one to compare his progress to, and he didn’t dare argue that point anymore.

The doctor would make him run his hands up his own body, all the curves and softness where it didn’t belong. They would make him cup his breasts and they would instruct him, as if he was some stupid child, that these were the qualities of a woman, and he would not ever get better until he stopped denying who he was. He could never remember exactly when it was that he would start crying. They would always leave him in a sobbing heap, doctor muttering angrily about seeing that there was nothing more that could be done today, what a shame, before he left Blake alone with his horrible traitorous body and his inconsolable mind.

Being that there was nothing productive to do, Gold hadn’t been able to prevent himself from brooding. He thought of his boy, his son, Baelfire, and of his boy, his true love, Blake. He thought of all the funny twists and turns life seemed to take and how, even with his advantage, he couldn’t quite see the destination. He hadn’t ever expected to have fallen in love at all, for one, much less with a man, the bitter turn being that this man was dead. Bitter, but maybe not so bitter, because Rumplestiltskin couldn’t imagine Blake being anything but completely miserable in a body untouched by magic, infinitely more miserable than Rumple was with his old limp again. There were still options here in Stoorybrooke without magic, though. It involved all sorts of doctors and needles and it was far from perfect, but it was something, at least. But he couldn’t be glad Blake was dead, because he wanted Blake here with him, wanted to tell him how sorry he was, wanted to…

But there was no fixing it.

There was no point in dwelling. Nothing to be gained from it except further misery. He’d managed to work out a fraction of the aggression on the lad’s father, hence this charming little cell and repeated refusal of half of a pastrami sandwich.

And then, in comes the Queen. His anger flares up again. He tries to quell it, to look dismissive and nonchalant as Regina talks the sheriff off of her post for a while. Of course Regina would want to attempt to threaten him alone, of course she wouldn’t want Sheriff Swan butting in. Of course she came to mock him, it was in her wounded nature, he recognised it well. Of course when she produced Gold’s most treasured possession, he could not keep from lunging for it, determined to have it back, to keep it safe and locked away and his. It was important, so important that he would tell the Queen what she wanted to know, give up that advantage, to protect a chipped cup. _The_ chipped cup. _His_ chipped cup.


	5. The escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blake escapes from the hospital with the help of Jefferson and then finds his way to Gold's shop.

“Wow, you look different from how I remember you.”

It was a voice, a male voice, an enviable voice in that quality, and so it must be the doctor. Only it wasn’t the doctor, it was strong and clear instead of wheezing and mystical. It wasn’t wicked. It was a voice that Blake couldn’t help but feel like would speak to him on his own level. Blake opened his eyes, and the figure that greeted him was the strangest orderly he had ever seen. The man wasn’t a doctor, or a patient, certainly, there were no others as far as Blake knew, and he was in crisp white, cheap fabric, but no doctor’s coat-- he must be a volunteer. The man looked half mad, himself, and this only further confirmed his suspicions. A volunteer. A volunteer that liked to play games, more like. The awe gave way to sudden irritation.

“How could you remember me—I’ve never seen you here before.” Blake sounded almost bored when he finally spoke. He knew where this game was going, he should have seen it straight away instead of been surprised by the novelty of the situation. Mind games were doldrums when your opponent had all the cards, all the power. A volunteer could just so easily call in the doctors with their needles and drugs and honestly, who would believe the mentally ill patient over the supposedly healthy volunteer? The answer was in the question.

“You look miserable. I mean, I can see why. I can see lots of things.” The last part was lilted a little, almost sing-song, and the man—“Jefferson”, he introduced himself, must be a very new volunteer. Too eager for one. For two, he’d left the door open. Blake hesitated, staring—should he make a run for it? He doubted he would get far—and anyway, he had nowhere to go. There were no friendly faces. Not even that creepy guy who was always mopping the floor. Sometimes Blake felt crazy for feeling like everyone was out to get him, and it was almost laughable because he knew that these doctors had put that thought in his head. Nobody was on his side, not really. Not here in the real world.

“Oh, boy, you have been here a long time, haven’t you?” Jefferson sounded crestfallen.

“Did he just call me “boy”?” Blake wondered for an instant, but pushed it aside because, no that was just an expression. He excused away his twinge of disappointment. He was being silly.

“Come with me.” Jefferson said, and he sounded so decisive that it gave Blake pause. He considered it, considered the hand he was being offered, and thinking that it certainly couldn’t get much worse than it was, he may as well take the risk (at least it would be something new), he took it—not without trepidation—after all, they might kill him. Even when you don’t care about dying, it’s so final and permanent and still a bit scary.

“Who are you really? Why are you doing this?” He was suddenly curious, and his fear jumped up a couple notches. Was this man sent here? By who? Nobody was on his own side, so what did this guy even want? What did Blake have even that anyone would want? Sex? Maybe this was a bad idea…  
“I need you to do something that I can’t.” Jefferson explained, answering Blake’s doubts, albeit in a slightly rushed way. “There’s a man. His name is Mr. Gold. Find him. All you have to do is tell him where you’ve been and that Regina locked you up.” Blake listened hard, fighting the blind panic that maybe he couldn’t handle this. He would fuck it up.

“What?” Blake mumbled, trying to take it all in.

“He’ll protect you. Just find him, tell him Regina locked you up, and he’ll know what to do.” Jefferson explained, “You understand?”  
“Yes… I understand that I have to find Mr. Gold.” Blake answered haltingly, breath starting to catch in his throat. Was this really happening? He couldn’t be imagining it, could he? He would never have imagined actually getting away, he didn’t think, so it must be real. But what if it was a trap?  
“Good boy, now let’s get out of here.” Jefferson said and Blake was so surprised by this validation, he found himself trusting this Jefferson person.

 

When Blake (marvelling at being outside and in fresh air) finally found the pawnshop, he was almost reluctant to go in. After the tinkling bells, the first thing he noticed was a characteristic smell—mostly musty, but earthy and alive and so un-clinical. It was comforting. It smelled like old books and forgotten treasures.

There was a man at the counter who looked admittedly attractive, but also quite busy. He had paused his work when he heard the entrance, shoved a large something into a chest on the table behind him.

“Are you Mr. Gold?” Blake inquired as the man’s back was turned.

“Yes, I am.” The man answered, and Blake heard the difference between their voices and felt once again, miserable. “The shop’s closed.” He said next, turning and stopping dead in his tracks as he spoke, eyes wide.

This made Blake nervous, but in a strange warm fluttery way. He didn’t have words to explain it.  
“I was told to—to find you.” Blake half-mumbled, “and tell you that Regina locked me up.” The man with his silver-tipped cane came out from behind his desk, still looking overcome with shock. The way he looked at Blake made him feel like he had come back from the dead or something.  
“Does that mean anything to you…?” Blake added hopefully, because to be honest he didn’t even close to fully understand his instructions. The man was approaching, lip trembling slightly, and Mr. Gold placed a hand on Blake’s shoulder, gripping tightly. Checking if he were real. Blake understood how that went. He felt like this man had been waiting for him for a long time and had at some point given up on his search. He felt bad for making Mr. Gold wait so long.

“You’re alive?” Mr. Gold said, still with wonder in his voice.

“I was told that you could protect me?” Blake added still more, shuffling in place a bit nervously, wishing he didn’t need protecting, but glad in the feeling that he might be taken care of.

When Mr. Gold answered, his voice was soft and it sounded like he was about to cry. “Oh yeah. Yes, I’ll protect you.” And the hug was long and warm and fervent and lovely and also to Blake utterly baffling.

“I’m sorry, but… do I know you?” Blake knew he would not get that kind of welcome from a stranger, even he wasn’t that crazy. But still, all he could remember all his life was that hospital.

“No… but you will.” Mr. Gold hugged tighter, more possessively, and Blake felt him inhale the scent of his hair. It was really nice, but also a bit uncomfortable. But still, Mr. Gold spoke so kindly and with so much love in his voice that it was hard to feel unpleasant.

“You will.”


End file.
